


Solid Copy (Signed in Triplicate)

by dwarrowkings



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Suits AU, clearly i am insane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:51:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/pseuds/dwarrowkings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is a college dropout who gets a chance to work at Whitmer Fick from Bradley Colbert, the best closer in the city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solid Copy (Signed in Triplicate)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Team:Humvee during Tumblr's 2011 HBO War-A-Thon. This is a Suits (TV) AU because clearly I enjoy AUs.

Brad Colbert is the best fucking closer in the whole goddamn city. He got there through hard work, his stunning good looks and by earning his goddamn nickname. The Iceman can close any deal, can do anything that Nate asks him to do and he doesn’t sweat about it. He’s about to make senior partner and that is just where he wants to be. Except, senior partners need to take on associates and Brad hates associates. They are useless for two reasons:  
For one, all of their associates have to be Harvard Law school grads- and What? Nate graduated from Dartmouth- and two, most Harvard Law School Graduates are communist liberal dicksucks who wouldn’t know spine if Brad ripped theirs out and beat them with it.  
It gives Brad a headache just thinking about it.  
“Poke,” he says, leading yet another incompetent yuppie out of his office, smiling like this is the best time he’s ever had in his entire life, no, really, “do something. I cannot take another three hours of this.”  
“You want me to give them a hard time?” Poke asks, a gleam in his eyes that Brad has seen before. Why Poke wasn’t a lawyer, Brad will never know.  
“And then a signal for one if they say something clever.” Brad sighs in relief. Poke may be the only one in this room to fully understand him.  
“Solid copy, sir.” Poke says, turning back to the room full of expensive suits and empty heads.  
\--  
This isn’t the situation that Ray really wanted to be in. He didn’t want to be holding Trombley’s drugs, waiting for a deal that may or may not go bad, because really? Do those guys think they’re fooling anyone?  
That bellhop didn’t even have a nametag for Christ’s sake. And he could smell the gun holster on the other guy from ten feet away. He looks them both over, and then blathers something about some rock star or other who is staying in the hotel and holding a concert later. He purposely mispronounces the The band’s name just to see if the guy reacts.  
He doesn’t.  
Alrighty then. Ray isn’t stupid. He’s going to walk with is briefcase full of pot past two cops who want to take down Trombley- not him, not really, though they surely won’t discriminate- and down the three floors to the Whitmer-Fick interviews for associates to hide until the cops give up on looking for him at all the exits closest to the stairwell and then he’s going to leave through the front door, looking at his watch and maybe looking a little shaken because hey, he just bombed an interview for Whitmer-Fick and he really doesn’t need the cops on his ass about pot that he’s never seen in his life okay?  
That is until the dude behind the desk when he walks in says “Blonde?” He says, and Ray notices his name plaque says Espera. “Mr. Blonde, you are ten minutes late to your interview with Mr. Colbert. What kind of messed up, white-privilege makes you think that we’re going to let you interview now?”  
“I never had an interview with Mr. Colbert. I set my interview up with Mr. Fick and his sweet mouth. I expect to see him, or I retract my offer. And I also set up the appointment under ‘Mr. Pink’ to avoid confusion with his Viking lover.”  
Brad walks out of his office, intrigued by the sudden tension to the silence in the room and the snort he hears from Poke. Not many people can make Tony Espera laugh.  
Poke looks over him and says “Mr. Colbert will be right with you, Mr. Blonde.”  
\--  
“And then I spouted something about the Jonad brothers being here tonight and if I could get tickets from the desk and the guy says ‘yeah, sure, there are still tickets’ which is a dead up lie, because this show has been sold out since the hour they announced the concert. There’s going to be a signing and everything. It’s really exciting to the Jonas fans, but I really just wanted to ask them which one takes it up the ass the most- they are small and homosexual, my good man. Small and flaming, straight-up homosexual.”  
Brad chooses to ignore his rant on the Jonas Brothers. “So how did you know they were cops?”  
“Dude, it was elementary, my dear Watson- they were stationed out in the hallway for like, ten freaking minutes before I even got there. They were waiting for me, and it was a cheap, cheap ruse.”  
“And how did you know they were there for ten minutes?”  
“Dude, I was early. Scoped out the area, just to make sure that I wasn’t going to get fucking shot or arrested because it would be just like Trombley to fucking set me up, man. Plus, the key they were using was the master key. There’s no way that the guy would be having trouble getting in his door with the fucking master key. Amateurs.”  
“How did you know it was the master? It could have been the guy’s room key.”  
“Nah. Room keys are black or gold. This key was white. It showed signs of daily use- wear around the edges, lines from swiping it into ten or twenty rooms a day for at least a week. Plus, it had a hole for a key ring. Most normal hotel keys don’t have that. Most people don’t live in hotels long term anymore.”  
Brad was impressed. This guy walks into an interview that wasn’t for him, with a briefcase full of pot, in a shitty suit, having just walked away from the dumbass police and still manages to impress Brad. This kid was worth something.  
“Hell, I’d give you the job.”  
“Really? Because dude. That would be awesome. I really need to move out of Trombley’s apartment. It kind of smells like he killed a cat in there or something and I don’t want to have to-“ Ray starts.  
“But I can’t.”  
“What? Why the actual fuck not?”  
“You didn’t go to any law school, much less Harvard law, you haven’t passed the Bar, you’re not a lawyer. I can’t hire you.” Brad paces, an unhappy frown showing in a line between his eyebrows, even though his mouth isn’t frowning.  
“I did pass the Bar.” Brad gives him a condescending look. Without changing his face at all.  
“And, pray tell, how did you do that?”  
“I took the test, dumbass. How else was I supposed to? You can’t pass a test without taking the test. And if you do, there was money involved. Which, man, there can be a fuckton of money if you get the inbred retards of the old money in this town.” Brad gives him a look that simultaneously looks amused and disgusted.  
“And you passed the Bar without going to law school.” Brad has the good grace to look condescending this time, the asshole.  
“I can read.” Ray says offhanded. He’s not going to tell this fucker if he doesn’t have to. He’ll just use it against him in the future, making him read briefs and proof drafts and do so much paperwork, Ray will have the smell of ink and paper scorched into his nose for the rest of his life. No way, motherfucker. Not going to happen like that. Ray is going to be a real lawyer.  
But Brad grabs the laptop on his desk and taps out a rhythmic burst, typing an address he has memorized, if Ray has to speculate.  
He starts speaking in legalese about non-profit radio stations and what regulations they’re subject to. Ray knows this shit, so he cuts in. “There are nine basic rules, the first three have to do with the amount of music from an album, artist or boxed set can be played in three hour chunks. The general rule is three, though it’s four from boxed sets and only two consecutively. They can’t slander anyone’s good character. They can’t incite people to commit crimes, or invite them to do the same.” He says, because he totally remembers that shit. “That’s the gist of it, Mr. Colbert, if you’d like me to continue, please, ask.”  
Brad looks at him for a stunned second, a vertical frown line between his stupidly blonde eyebrows. His family was probably inbred for three generations just so they could have such pretty blonde hair and blue eyes. That and they only had the ice to entertain them. “How did you know that?”  
“I read it. When I studied. For the Bar.”  
“That isn’t on the Bar.” Brad said.  
“No, but I did go to college, even if only for a while. Was on the radio. It was fun, though I had to know the rules, so I read all of them.” He says with a shrug.  
“You read the entire set of regulations for non-profit, college radio broadcasts and understood them? At 20?” Brad looks skeptical.  
“Don’t doubt my intelligence, motherfucker. Just because I am so irresistible that everyone I know is just waiting to sit on my dick does not make me a retard. In fact, it is my brain they’re after, if you catch my drift.” Ray waggles his eyebrows suggestively.  
“Oh great. You’ve reached such a level of inbred hick-dom that your brain has actually migrated to your dick. I did not know that level of fucktard was possible.” Ray can tell from Brad’s overbite that he’s smug.  
“Nah, man. I just memorized the entire Kama Sutra.” He’s really just showing off now.  
“And how did you do that?” The Kama Sutra is a long and arduous book.  
“I read it, fuckwit, how else was I supposed to memorize it?” Ray is back to doubting Brad’s intelligence because really. You have to read something to memorize it, eidetic memory or not.  
“How many times did you have your mommy read it to you before you finally understood where your dick goes?” Ray is sure that if Brad possessed emotions, he’d be scrunching his face in spiteful condescension.  
“Ninny read it to me once, which - way awkward, because I was maybe ten at the time and I was like, woah, Ninny, do not tell me about your sex life. Totally not ready to imagine my grandmother having sex” Ray shudders, “nope, still not, but anyway, it only took the once when I stole it from her in 7th grade to impress Mindy Brown so she’d go down on me after 6th period science.” Ray shrugs.  
“And did she?” Brad looks mildly interested- the most emotion he’s seen out of Brad all afternoon.  
“Fuck no, tightass bitch told the principal I was harassing her. I was clearly only doing the things the other guys were doing, just in a more direct manner.” Ray shrugs, the proposition of 7th grade strange rolling off him.  
“Well, I hate to cut embarrassing the fuck out of you with your lack of sex life short, but I have other people to interview for this position.”  
“I’ll take it, I said. Do you not listen to me when I speak?” Ray is being reasonable here.  
“Can you hear me at all with all of the cum dripping out of your ears from the truck-stops you so obviously frequent if your tie is anything to go by? I can’t hire you. You didn’t go to Law School.”  
“And yet, I understand law better than anyone else in that room out there. Outside of being a kickass Marine, I always wanted to be a lawyer.” Ray shrugs, as if the admission is a concession of weakness. Like if he gives Brad a reason to help him out, he might do it.  
Brad gives him a look, and Ray isn’t sure what it means. He walks over to the door, and leans out, giving Ray a very clear view of his ass in that suit and goddamn. Who knew lawyers were so fucking hot? Really, though, Brad could fuck him up sideways, because he’s like, a bajillion feet tall and all muscle.  
Ray wouldn’t mind the bruises though.  
It’s really not the point, because man. He’s never going to be a lawyer now. He dicked his chance, because it wasn’t even really a chance and fuck if he isn’t sad about it.  
Brad turns around, resigned. He says “Okay. Okay. But only because Poke basically just told me that he was going to go on a murdering spree of the hippy, suit communists sitting out there in the waiting area.”  
Ray doesn’t believe it. “Wait. I get it?” He’s never really gotten anything he wanted before.  
“Unfortunately for me, yes. You seem the best candidate.” Brad likes him, Ray can totally tell. It’s his irascible charm. It may also be his dimples. No one with genitals can resist dimples, and Ray has the best kind, all lopsided and quirky. Brad totally thinks he’s hot. Ray may or may not be imagining it.  
“I don’t want to bone you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”  
“Aww, c’mon homes. What kind of fucked up initiation ceremony shit do I get to do now, huh? Do you break out the paddle?” He grins widely. “Because I am totally cool with that. My safeword is ‘Lilliputians’ but I promise not to use it. Dude, what is it. What do we do now?”  
“I go home, text Nate that I found a new associate, and then I take off all of my clothing and let three very attractive women- two of whom are named Megan- lick melted chocolate off of every inch of my body. What the fuck do you think I’m going to do?”  
Ray might still be distracted by the image of Brad, naked, covered in melted chocolate, warm and tasty and inviting. Fuck. “Sleep?”  
“Eventually yes. I am going to text Nate, because that was the important part, but then I am going to call Rudy because shit. You need some new suits.”  
“You’re going to buy me suits?” Ray says with glee, because that is some fucked up shit, right there. Did Brad not know that if you bought people clothing, you were legally obligated to take them out of it later?  
“No. I’m going to make you buy your own damn new suits with your own goddamn money that I am going to give you- in controlled bursts- out of your signing bonus. You now answer to the gavel, rack and bank of Brad Colbert. Thank you for your soul, just waiting for the blood seal to dry.”  
Ray laughs, because at least the guy who owns his brain and consciousness for the next approximately forever has a sense of humor. Ooh. This is going to be fun.  
\--  
“You know you look like a sunshine puppy, right?” Ray has temporarily lost control of his mouth. Contrary to popular belief- shut up, Brad- he does think about the words that come out of his mouth. But this kid looks like he could shit rainbows.  
“Sunshine puppies don’t exist, even in that Lisa Frank bullshit that got you through middle school, Mr…” he looks at the folder in his hand, even though it cannot possibly hold the answer he seeks. “Person. Now, if you’ll follow me, I have been assigned, even though it is way below my kickass skills, to give you a tour of the premises.” He hands Ray a notepad and a pen. “You’ll need it if you’re going to remember anything of what I tell you. Don’t drool over my ass when I turn around.”  
The pupp-guy who showed up to allieviate some of his confusion only brought more. Are all people who work in law offices drool on your dick attractive? Do they all wear pants that make their asses look amazing? Can Ray convince any of them to get into his pants?  
“I’m Walt. You’ll want something to moan when you’re jerking it in the bathroom later.” Walt grins slightly lopsided, and starts to explain the politics of the building, as opposed to the physical layout. Ray pays attention, sure he does. Casey Kasem is in charge of associates. Junior partner. Snubbed when Brad got promoted. He’s pissed off about it. Enough, Ray assumes, to make his life hell for the next forever.  
But Walt is wearing this interesting combination of long sleeved blue sweater, just dark enough to be called navy, but not quite true, and a white starchy collar peeks out of the slight vee at the neck. There is a tie around the collar- double Windsor, Ray notes- just the shade lighter than his sweater, and Ray briefly fantasizes about Walt tying him to a headboard.  
Nate is the head dick in charge, Along with Whitmer- who no one ever calls by his first name, unlike Nate, they are the two name partners. There are a slew of senior partners, but none that Whitmer and Fick want to be name partners. Can you imagine Schwetje, Whitmer and Fick? What a shitty name. No one knows how to pronounce Schwetje. Or spell it. It would be a nightmare.  
Brad is the newest Senior partner, promoted the day before he hired Ray. Walt has a really nice ass in his pressed navy pants.  
They finally arrive at his desk- not cubicle, just desk. It is situated in the very corner of the room, facing the wall. Whoever put it there was smoking crack. There was obviously room enough for Ray to at least face the front, but no. Dickbags.  
“This is your desk. There are three rules to this job; you are higher than me on the social ladder, but I can cut off your dick, and do what Brad says.” Walt starts to walk away.  
“But those are only two rules.” Ray calls after him.  
The smirk that Walt sends back is knowing, but no more illuminating than opening the curtains after dark.  
\--  
As interesting as all of this is, this is boring. Ray knew on some level that he was going to be buried in paperwork for the next thirteen years, but he couldn’t imagine the sheer scope of the blandness of it all.  
“You’re reading a cookbook, fuckstick. You’re supposed to be going over the Abernathy briefs.” Brad says, true to his Iceman exterior.  
“Yeah, well, it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry.” Ray holds up the folder. He finished it five minutes ago, what?  
“As if that made perfect sense. Even inbred, goat-fucking retards like yourself still require actual sustenance. If you can even fucking read.” This is Brad’s way of showing affection, Ray knows. But he flips though the briefs, nodding minutely to himself when he finds the passage that Ray highlighted in bright purple.  
“And if you can shit around the hugeass stick shoved in your sphincter, I’m Cleopatra.” Ray shrugs still reading about garlic potatoes.  
“If you win me this case, you hick, you’re my queen.” Brad says, and then, as if he realized what he just said, he turns on his heel and walks away. Huh.  
\--  
When Kasem wants help on the Phillips case, he turns to Ray. Which in and of itself is weird, because Kasem has been standoffish up to this point, and he really hadn’t expected that to change, given the way that Ray was brought in for drug tests and then subsequently told he failed them- even though he wasn’t living with Trombley, so no contact highs. If they’d been looking for ephedrine- which wasn’t strictly illegal- they’d have what they’d been looking for, but as it was, Ray let it slide. They didn’t have shit on him, so he’d just let it roll off him like duck shit on a statue’s head.  
“Phillips is a special case,” Kasem is saying, which- of course he is, all cases are special, but Kasem is known for having dick for brains, even though he’s Junior Partner.  
“Do I need to hold his hand and stroke his hair while he points out on the dolly where the big bad man touched him?”  
Kasem’s nostrils flare, like he’s holding back some thought. Which can’t be possible, because Kasem doesn’t think. “Not exactly.”  
Kasem is just an idiot, Ray thinks, ten minutes later, when he realizes that Phillips only hates Kasem. It’s pretty hilarious, but Ray has the tact not to laugh. Loudly.  
\--  
It has oft been rumored (by no one but Casey Kasem) and speculated (by everyone) that Nate Fick and Brad Colbert are sleeping together. Ray can totally see it, Nate’s very pretty, and Brad is… Brad. They eyefuck like no one Ray has ever seen.  
Okay, so his super hot boss is boning his other super hot boss, who may or may not have come on to him at some point.  
This shit is just weird.  
\--  
It gets weirder. Ray sees Walt and Nate leaving a restaurant, once, and they were pretty cuddly. It was adorable, because Walt was wearing this white button-down, but the sleeves were partially rolled up, and Nate had lost his tie. Ray had felt a little like he was intruding on something more intimate than them leaving a restaurant.  
Great, now Ray’s crushing on both of his bosses and the paralegal who is quite possibly his only friend.  
\--  
Nate’s eyes are very green, and his face is the face of an angel. It’s disarming in a bad way, because Nate is more likely to rip your spine out than save your soul.  
“Mr. Person, you are aware that pranks are discouraged here at Whitmer Fick.” The way that Nate says it, it isn’t a question. Ray quells the urge to say the oh am i? that is on the tip of his tongue, and Nate continues anyway. “Under less… pressing circumstances surrounding your employment,” what he means is that Brad blew him, so he couldn’t fire the best associate they have “I would fire you. As it is, I am putting you under Brad’s care and hoping for the best.” Ray really hopes that “under Brad’s care” means that Brad gets to tie him to the bed.  
Some of what he’s thinking must show in his face, because Nate’s eyes turn predatory, taking in every line, angle and twitch. Ray tries very hard not to find it attractive, but he fails miserably.  
It really isn’t his fucking fault that everyone is so goddamn attractive.  
\--  
“Poke” Ray starts, holding the folders that Brad asked to have done by this morning.  
“No.” Poke says, not even listening to what Ray was going to say.  
“But” Ray starts again, but Brad shows up. Poke hands him a cup of black coffee, still hot, a post it note that has his morning meeting list stuck to the lid. Brad gives Poke a vaguely terrifying look that may or may not be a smile.  
Brad plucks the files from Ray’s arms and goes into his office.  
Poke laughs at him as he’s walking away.  
“Have fun losing at Hearts, my friend.” Ray calls over his shoulder on his way back to his desk. He’s got more proofs of the Shinemore case to do, and Brad wants them before he leaves for lunch.  
\--  
“Walt, my dearest baby honey child, sunshine of my life, puppy, why didn’t you ever go to law school? You’d be awesome, you’d just like, lick your lip or something and they’d fall for everything you said.” Ray is not entirely lying. Walt may or may not have tricked him before.  
Devious little mother fucker.  
“Stop calling me stupid pet names, Ray. And I am terrible at taking tests. I got a 125 on the LSAT because I cannot seem to focus when there are eighteen hundred people around me focusing and mumbling and scratching away with their squeaky pencils.” At this point, Walt trails off into a long, mumbling rant. It is still super adorable. He decides to change the subject.  
“Does Brad know that you’re fucking Nate?”  
“I really hope so, because if not, he’s blind, and we have defiled his bed. With him watching.” Ray may or may not lose control of his mouth (and not in a talking way). His mouth doesn’t hang open. Not even a little.  
“Ray, close your mouth. You’ll catch flies.” Ray’s teeth click when he closes his mouth.  
“Brad would sleep with me, right?” Ray says, because his mouth has disconnected itself from the part of his brain that actually has shame.  
“I doubt that either of you’d get much sleep, but yes.” Walt says, and when did Walt turn into a gossipy girl? Ray doesn’t care. He wants to kiss him.  
“I think I might kiss you.” Ray says. Damn that part of his brain.  
“You’d have to clear it through Nate and Brad, but I don’t think they’d mind.”  
Ray waggles his eyebrows.  
“Want to turn your threesome into a foursome?”  
“What fucking took you so long to ask?” Walt says, and holy shit. This is the best decision of his life.  
\--  
“Brad, move your leg, no Nate, stay where you are. Shit fuck Walt, you need to stop or I’m going to come right now, and Brad said I couldn’t and oh.” He may or may not have cut off like a girl. He doesn’t care. Walt took his mouth off his dick, which was good for his ego, but didn’t make his dick very happy.  
Brad moved his leg, which pressed Nate deeper, and man. Nate really liked being in the middle.  
He said it helped his negotiation skills.  
What Ray really knew was he just liked that one moment where he and Brad together got up enough leverage to finally finally make Ray stop moaning “Harder.” It was a beautiful thing. And really, Walt didn’t mind fucking Ray’s mouth if it means that he’ll shut the fuck up sometimes. It’s a win-win-win-win. Orgasms, golly gee, Ray thinks. Fuck yes.


End file.
